


would she

by quintic



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Alcohol, F/F, Finale spoilers, Masturbation, PWP, blood mention, knife play mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 07:44:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14786348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quintic/pseuds/quintic
Summary: Thinking about the woman who is trying to catch you while you touch yourself, is... wild. Completely unpredictable.Entirely Villanelle's style.





	would she

The next few days pass in a blur. 

Niko doesn't come back home. Eve doesn't go back to work. She wants to march in and clear out her things with all the indifference of somebody who just doesn't give a shit but she can't stomach the idea of facing Carolyn right now. Elena will want to follow up the lead she's discovered and she just– can't. Not yet. She's not ready for that. She wants a good week to soak in all that's happened, in the film of horror and surprise settling over the surface of her.

She stabbed someone.

Oksana.  _Villanelle_. 

And now she's gone.

Slipped right through the gaps Eve's fingers like water.

Like blood.

So Eve sets up Google alerts. She makes a fort out of the kitchen table, spreads her work across it and she microwaves leftovers and she drinks wine straight from the bottle. She spends her evenings staring at her computer, checking local news for any stories about young women found in peril, for reports on bodies found. She spends her days waiting for somebody to show up on her doorstep: Carolyn, Elena, the police. The Twelve. She can't kid herself into thinking Villanelle will eventually appear in her home if only she keeps a constant vigil. 

And is it fucked up that she misses her? That she misses the rush of adrenaline that comes with having her just out of reach? When she had a clear set of tracks to follow Eve had felt more alive than she ever had in years, but now that everything has boiled down to simply determining whether _Villanelle_ is alive or dead (let alone  _where_ she is)...

It isn't enough.

She takes the bottle of red with her to bed that night. What? Sleeping is difficult. She's been having strange dreams that toe the line of nightmare in which she's stalked by something just out of sight. She dreams about blood on her hands. Dreams about a warm, heavy weight on top of her, pressing into her, wet heat on her mouth. She's not sure what to think about any of it.

Eve collapses back onto her mattress and curls onto her side, holding the bottle loosely in one hand and the thought of Villanelle climbs into bed unbidden beside her. It curls onto its side in turn, a perfect mirror, staring at her with its expression unguarded, naked. Eve sighs, and turns resolutely to flop on her back instead.

_I think about you, too. I mean, I masturbate about you a lot._

She snorts and awkwardly uncaps the bottle, lifting it to her lips to take a long swig.

Thinking about the woman who is trying to catch you while you touch yourself, is... wild. Completely unpredictable.

Entirely Villanelle's style.

Eve sighs, and her with her free hand, dips her fingers down over her stomach, into her pants. This isn't anything, it's... a combination of being wine-drunk, of missing her husband. Doesn't she deserve this? Some time to herself? After everything that's happened, surely she can grant herself this much. She inches her fingers across her underwear, eyes resolutely shut.

How... would Villanelle do it?

She'd tease, for sure. She seems like somebody who would even tease to a point and then leave you like that, teetering on the edge, waiting for that last push. She would take her time; she would savour you. Eve's fingertips deliberately skirt her clit, touch feather-light, unsatisfying. she can hear Villanelle's low amusement in her ear, a smug little hum. Can feel the curve of her mouth, pressed mockingly against Eve's neck, just below her ear.

She would probably try to make Eve beg for her. Something cliche. Eve doesn't think that she would stoop that low, to pleading for Villanelle's touch; it's not something she needs, merely something she _wants_. Besides, even if she deigned to follow along Villanelle would be contrary about it. She would change her mind, pretend to leave, and then come surging back like an ocean, push and pull, she... would fan her fingers out across Eve's throat, and her thumb would press lovingly against her windpipe, hard enough to be uncomfortable. Not enough to kill, but enough to hint.

What would she look like in that moment? Would she smile? Would she open her mouth? Would Eve see her teeth bared, her tongue flat, her lips red?  

The mostly empty bottle of wine slides from her slack grip. Eve shoves her pants down, kicking them down past her thighs and off and her wandering hand finally finds permission to slip into her underwear. Jesus, she's wetter than she thought she'd be. Villanelle might make a comment about that, something self congratulatory and smug. Even thinking about it now, lost in the fantasy and the vision of her self-satisfied smirk, Eve finds herself mouthing the word 'asshole' to the ceiling. She doesn't doubt that Villanelle would take the time to wind her up, but doesn't think she'd  _waste_ any time, either.  Would she sink her fingers into her, one at a time, watching Eve so carefully? Would her eyes be wide and gleeful? Or would she gather that wetness and trail it up to her clit, taunt her like that? Eve does the the later, and resists the urge to roll her hips into her own hand. _Villanelle's_ hand.

She thinks about those hands a lot. Strong, sure of themselves. Bruised knuckles, thin wrists, long, slender fingers. She's seen them around the grip of a gun, the handle of a knife, the back of Eve's hand. Clutching desperately at her own stomach, palms sliding uselessly against blood-slick skin. Eve sinks two fingers into her cunt with a soft groan, setting a steady pace.

Villanelle's shocked expression comes rushing back to the forefront of her mind. How would she fuck Eve now, if given the chance? Would she be ruthless? Would she press her down against the bed with her hips and _fuck_ her, or would she be tender, in the inexplicable way that she seems to reserve for Eve alone; would she make love? Would she talk? Would she be silent and watchful, hungrily bringing Eve closer and closer? Every crook of her clever fingers is too much and not enough.

She would be good. Eve doesn't have to wonder about this; she would be _so_ good. She would fuck Eve breathless, fuck her fast and to completion and then again, and again and again. She would fuck her with her fingers, with her lips, with her tongue, with- the handle of the knife, sinking it into her, careful, calculated. She would take Eve to pieces and Eve would relish every second, would pull Villanelle against her, down and into her, keep her like a secret in amongst her ribs and that would be fine, wouldn't it? If they both wanted it, if they both thought about it so obsessively, it would make it okay.

Afterwards, Villanelle would curl around her like a snake. Would she watch her sleep? Would she leave, or would she stay? What would she look like in the morning, soft and half-asleep, her hair matted against her cheek?

Maybe they would go for breakfast. Maybe they would stay in and watch a movie.

 _Fuck_ , she's so close. If only Villanelle could see her like this, flat on her back on the mattress, one hand working relentlessly between her legs, the other gripping her breast through her shirt, rolling her nipple between finger and thumb. She thinks that if Villanelle were here, she would perhaps sit and watch Eve remorselessly fuck herself, perched on the edge of the bed with her legs splayed,  _knowing_ Eve was thinking about her. Or she would join in. She can see it in her mind's eye: Villanelle loping over easy, casual, sinking a knee onto the bed and tangling her fingers into her hair and  _pulling_ –

She comes so hard she accidentally knocks the bottle of wine off the bed with her elbow. The resulting thump and _glug_ of the liquid makes her sit up immediately, startled, hand stilling between her legs. For a moment she stares as the wine spreads in a puddle on the carpet; red on white, red on white; Villanelle staring up from underneath of her, whimpering.

_I really liked you._

"Fuck," she whispers, and runs a shaking hand through her hair, and then, "shit–" as she swings her legs around to uselessly pluck the empty bottle from the carpet. 

It's too late.

The wine has soaked through.


End file.
